


drowned in living waters

by deadgreeks



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Kissing In A Field, M/M, aziraphale's literature hot takes, crowley is jealous, heaven sucks and is in fact an analogy for heterosexual society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-23 20:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20219830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadgreeks/pseuds/deadgreeks
Summary: Aziraphale has affections and literary opinions which run counter to the will of Heaven. Crowley is mostly just jealous.





	drowned in living waters

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale seems much colder towards Crowley in 1862 than he did at the Globe, to me, and Crowley more paranoid. There Was An Incident.

_[O](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0CP9zpbmAQ)h, woe is me, _

_the first time that you touched me_

* * *

The sun beat unseasonably hot and heavy on Crowley and Aziraphale's backs as they took their stroll. It was beautiful, Aziraphale couldn't help but admit; he spent the whole of the year in London, and rarely left, but he had to admit that spring in the countryside put the city to shame. They had left the path behind and made their own through a field of wildflowers, the smell heady in the air, so thick and rich it warned this was the peak of the season. Aziraphale, at Crowley's side, would certainly enjoy it while he could.

"All I'm saying," Crowley said, and Aziraphale's attention returned to their conversation, "is that you have to admit, her books would be more interesting if she fell more to my side."

"I disagree," Aziraphale said primly, though he wasn't sure that he did. They were both guests of the lady of the house, a rising author with a substantial readership, and had both been tasked with influencing her to spread vice and virtue through her novels, respectively. It was, on the whole, perhaps the best assignment Aziraphale had ever been given. He had quite enjoyed her first two publications, the estate was beautiful, her library impressive, and he would be spending the whole of the week in Crowley's company--which, of course, would make it far easier to thwart his wiles, and was agreeable for no other reason. "I think a virtuous, traditional heroine is far more interesting."

"No you don't," Crowley snorted. "Remember Ivanhoe? Come off it, angel, you were furious about Rebecca's ending. You sent me a six page letter about it."

"Rebecca was virtuous," Aziraphale snapped. "Even more virtuous than Rowena. The only reason she didn't marry Ivanhoe is because she was Jewish, and that's all there is to it. None of this nonsense about the _nobility of tragic endings_\--Scott was simply a coward, and I do believe he wound up one of yours."

"I don't know about that," Crowley said, cutting what Aziraphale is sure is an amused look out of the corner of his eye. "She might be virtuous but she's hardly traditional. And besides, look at East Lynne, you were in a way about Lady Isabel's ending too."

"Hasn't anyone ever heard of Christian forgiveness?" Aziraphale muttered. "A fallen woman she may have been, but she hardly deserved the fate she got. Her only crime was falling in love with a charming rogue, really. And I resent the notion that disfigurement is a punishment, which Wood clearly intended it to be--"

"Alright, alright, angel, I'm just saying, you don't like all these boring novels about virtuous people being virtuous and making the good, virtuous choices their parents want them to make," Crowley said, laughing. "I've got a whole box of letters to prove it. Don't you want something more exciting? Less predictable? People being happy instead of all," he gestured with his cane, "sensible?"

"I like predictable," Aziraphale sniffed. "I'll take a good, predictable ending, and a sensible protagonist, any day."

"Sure," Crowley said, sighing. He swung his cane at the tall grass brushing their knees, an explosion of petals erupting. Aziraphale frowned at his behavior, but said nothing, instead enjoying the breeze that had picked up. "Suppose that's why you're so fascinated with that Lord Edward fellow."

"Lord Edward? Which novel is that?"

"Not a novel, that bland heir to something or other with the awful voice in the parlor," Crowley said. He took another vicious swing at a flower, missed, and hissed, irritated.

It took a moment for Aziraphale to place who he meant. He blinked at him. "The--pianist?"

"Yes, the one singing those dreary songs about the Rhine or whatever else," he muttered.

"Whyever would you think I was fascinated by him?" Aziraphale asked, amused. _Why would you care?_ Certainly, he was a skilled musician, but a bit...fair-haired, for Aziraphale's taste. Short, broad-shouldered, muscular. Not that he had tastes, of course, being an angel, but if he _did_. And not, of course, that it's that sort of fascination to which Crowley was referring. Why would he? "I was simply listening to him play, he was quite talented."

"For an amateur, perhaps," Crowley said.

"Really, dear boy, must you be so judgmental? I think he did a fine job," Aziraphale said. "It's very generous to devote ones entire afternoon to entertaining the rest of the room."

"Oh, yes, a real trial, having everyone in the room looking at him, hanging all over him," Crowley muttered. Another flower exploded, before Crowley's cane even came in contact with it.

"No one was hanging all over him," Aziraphale said, exasperated.

"You were."

"I wasn't," Aziraphale said. Truthfully, he'd spent most of the afternoon watching Crowley flirt with the lady of the house's husband, as if that was even _necessary _for his assignment. "He's engaged, besides."

"So you asked--"

"What is this about, Crowley?" Aziraphale snapped impatiently. "Are you worried I'm persuading him to good? He's doing a fine job of it on his own. He sponsors poor young people so they can go to school and get educations."

"How bloody wonderful for him," Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale huffed and picked up his pace to walk ahead of him until his irritation waned. Crowley got this way sometimes, inexplicably concerned about who Aziraphale spoke to. He'd been the same way about Shakespeare, of all people, when Aziraphale could easily counter with Crowley's close friendship with Marlowe. He was responsible for the dashing, brooding, inexplicably sympathetic character of Mephistopheles, Aziraphale was certain of it.

Crowley lengthened his stride to catch up, sighing. "Look, angel, I'm sorry--"

"I just don't see how it's any of your business," Aziraphale sniffed. "I'm allowed to have acquaintances, you know. It isn't all blessings and miracles."

"I know," Crowley said, smirking, "you hang around me, don't you?"

"That is purely professional," Aziraphale said, whirling to face him, and he winced at the wounded expression on Crowley's face. "I, er--"

"Professional, right," Crowley said. "Professional nights at the theater, professional lunches, professional saving your ass when you get yourself into stupid jams, _professional country strolls."_

"We're discussing our assignments," Aziraphale said weakly, and Crowley flinched.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you're right. I'm an idiot. Come on, it's getting late. We should head back." He turned and began the slog back to the path, stomping with unnecessary force. The tall flowers leaned precariously out of his way, and still met his wrath, flattened.

"Crowley--"

"Just don't, angel," Crowley sighed. "You're right, I was out of bounds."

Aziraphale chewed at his lip, hurrying to keep pace. "No, I...Crowley," he said, putting his hand on his elbow to stop him, and he froze. His black coat was sun-warm to the touch, even through Aziraphale's gloves, and he let his hand linger a moment before his mind caught up and he snatched it back, wide-eyed. Crowley only stared at him, not moving a muscle, and after a moment of hesitation, he laid his hand on his arm, forcing himself to make meet Crowley's eyes, hoping against hope he could see what Aziraphale couldn't say. It was an unlikely hope, given that Aziraphale wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted to say, except--

_You’re my friend, _maybe, but even that he couldn’t admit to himself. There was more than that, too, nebulous things he could feel but couldn’t grasp, wouldn’t try. "You understand, don't you?"

He nodded, slowly, but Aziraphale didn't remove his hand, caught in Crowley's gaze, the way the sun hit the lenses of his glasses just right so Aziraphale could see his stricken eyes. There had been a fad, for a time, when young people would carry little miniature portraits of their lovers eyes, wear them as jewelry, taunting their friends with the mystery of it. Aziraphale had always thought of Crowley when he saw them, richly framed bracelets or pinned on lapels. His eyes would be far too unique for that, were he to ever take a lover. There would be no mystery, no wondering who those gold slit eyes belonged to.

"Angel," Crowley said, his voice soft and hoarse, and Aziraphale swallowed hard, watching his mouth form the word. His hand remained on his arm, separated by Crowley's shirt, his coat, Azirapahle's glove, yet Aziraphale's palm prickled, like there was nothing between them at all, only skin against skin.

It felt, really, like there was nothing else to do, as if it was gravity; as if he'd been tilting towards him since the moment they touched and there was no choice but to fall. But really, it was quite the opposite: with his gaze fixed on his lips, Aziraphale rose up, as if in a trace, and kissed him, soft, light, barely-there as the dandelion fuzz which clung to his cheek.

His eyes slide closed, and Crowley made a sound like a whine or a moan, and his cane thumped to the ground as his hands came up to grip Aziraphale's waist, pulling him in, deepening the kiss to something desperate, grounded, sweet as the inner flesh of an apple, and Aziraphale shuddered at it, at the taste of him. Tea and tobacco and something sharp and earthy, like cinnamon, and he licked into his mouth, chasing it. Crowley gasped, fingers tightening in Aziraphale's coat, and surged forward, knocking both their hats off.

Aziraphale stumbled back, yelping when his back hit the ground, but the sting and dull ache was driven out of his mind by the gentle kiss Crowley gave him, his gloved hand twined in his, and he kissed Aziraphale's cheek, whispering, breathless, "alright? Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Shut up," Aziraphale said, turning his head to chase his lips again, something hungrier, and Crowley's tongue dragged along his lower lip, the soft slide of it almost painful in the way it made Aziraphale feel wild, dazed, out of his mind in the heat and grass, Crowley's weight pressing into him. "Crowley, my dear, Crowley, I--"

Crowley kissed along his jaw, his trembling fingers working at Aziraphale's necktie, and Aziraphale gripped his hips, pulling him down, closer, staring up at the wide, open, cloudless blue sky, and suddenly felt--

Terribly exposed, weren't they? Out here in the field, on assignment, no less--

A horrible terror, a foreboding crashed into him, heavy, with far more force than Crowley had landed on him.

"Crowley, wait," he said, and Crowley froze immediately, leaning back. Flower petals were tangled in his hair, grass seed and pollen clung to his face, the absolute picture of flowering passion, youthful Dionysian impulse, but they were hardly, youthful, were they, they were old, very old, an angel and a demon, and--

There was a familiar crack nearby, and the sharp smell of ozone burned away the intoxicating scent of the meadow. Crowley, suddenly, was gone, a black mass in Aziraphale's lap slithering into the grass. Aziraphale sat up, staring, terrified, into Crowley's snake eyes, as wide as his own, and his head dipped, something almost like a reassuring nod--_I'm not going anywhere_, it said, _I'm right here, I won’t leave,_ and Aziraphale nodded back, gathering his composure.

Gabriel stood in the grass some distance away, frowning at the scenery.

"Gabriel," Aziraphale said, his voice high and oddly-pitched, and Gabriel's eyes cleared when they landed on him. "How...lovely, to see you."

"Aziraphale," he greeted. "What, uh." His eyes flickered over him, disheveled and sitting in the grass. "What are you doing?"

"It's a," Aziraphale struggled to find an explanation that did not involve admitting he had just been kissing a demon. "A thing humans do."

"Really," Gabriel said, and shrugged. "How stupid. Anyway, I just thought I'd check in on how the assignment's going."

"It's," Aziraphale frowned. The last time someone had actually come to check on one of his assignments was...early Christianity, he was pretty sure, helping to build the church. "It's going well? The young lady is quite talented, and of course, virtuous. Definitely on our side.”

"Great," Gabriel beamed. "That's good to hear."

"Er, why is Heaven so interested in this particular woman's soul, if I may ask?" Aziraphale couldn't help but look at Crowley, who seemed as confused as he was.

"Aziraphale," Gabriel scolded. "Heaven is interested in the fortunes of all human souls."

"Of course," he said hurriedly, though he knew that wasn't, exactly, true. No one had ever come to check up on the individual progress of a soul towards the light before.

"But Our Lord is particularly fond of this author's work," Gabriel allowed. "She's very intent that she be influenced towards the light."

"Ah," he said faintly. God was reading romantic epistolary novels. And had a particular interest in this woman's. And was very keen that she be swayed to their side. And no one had told Aziraphale this. And instead of working on this assignment, perhaps his most important since establishing the church hierarchy, he had been _cavorting with the adversary in a field,_ rolling around like lustful youths with more passion than sense. "Wonderful. Good to know."

"So, it's going well?" Gabriel said. "I don't need to tell you that when the Lord takes a special interest in the fate of one human, it's really important that it goes well."

"No," Aziraphale agreed. "You do not need to tell me that."

"Excellent," he said. "Heaven. Virtue. Maybe a, a helpful priest, in her next book? None of this, running off to Scotland to elope and be married by a blacksmith stuff. Churches, Aziraphale. The Lord wants to see churches."

"Churches," Aziraphale said. "Priests. No blacksmiths. Got it."

"There can be blacksmiths," Gabriel corrected. "The Lord hasn't said anything specific about Her opinions on blacksmiths. But no getting _married _by a blacksmith."

"Of course," he said.

Gabriel sniffed, looking around. "Something feels, or--smells--"

"Goats," Aziraphale blurted. Of course Gabriel could smell Crowley, that brimstone-and-clove smell that clung to him, beneath even the thickest cologne, because he was a _demon_. "Ah, it's a goat. Pasture. Goats live here."

"Oh," Gabriel said, with a look that said, _and you're laying in the grass? _"Alright, if you've got all that, I'll be off. Lots of important business." He clapped his hands together, and gave him a very cold smile. "Take care of this, Aziraphale," he said, and with a flash of lightning from the cloudless sky, he was gone.

The grass had worked its way into his sleeve and under his collar, itching terribly, and he picked at it idly. Crowley transformed back into his human shape, patting his torso as if to confirm he still had hands to do so with. "Satan below," he swore. "That was close."

"It was," Aziraphale agreed hollowly. If Gabriel had seen--Aziraphale would've Fallen, and Crowley probably would've been smote. Or taken to Hell and destroyed. He'd put them both in the most horrible danger, and for what? "I--I'm sorry, Crowley, I got carried away."

"You--"

"Too many romantic novels, I suppose, I apologize," he said, and pain flashed across Crowley’s face.

"Angel--"

"_Crowley_," he said severely, and allowed a fraction of the terror he felt make its way onto his face. Crowley swallowed hard, and ducked his head. He swallowed, composing himself again. "I got carried away."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."

"Right," he said, getting to his feet, and he wanted desperately to offer Crowley a hand, but--

Well, that didn't seem such a good idea.

"Given the nature of this assignment, dear boy, do you mind if I--"

"Yeah, you take this one," Crowley said, picking up his cane and hat from where they'd been discarded. Aziraphale found his own and secured it on his head. "I think I'm going back to London." He sniffed, brushed a petal off his shoulder. "Don't care for the country."

_I'm sorry,_ Aziraphale wanted to say, but he didn't. He shouldn't even _want _to say it. He was an angel, and Crowley was a demon. Angels didn't apologize to demons. And they also did not kiss them senseless in fields.

_What a poor angel I am,_ he thought miserably.

"Perhaps that's for the best," he said, and Crowley swallowed, looking away.

The walk back to their host's house was quiet, and Crowley was gone before dinner, without another word.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0CP9zpbmAQ)  
Just Wanted Them Kissing In A Field, Lads
> 
> Join me on tumblr at [ganymxde](https://ganymxde.tumblr.com/)


End file.
